


The Poor Man's Mocha

by Plenoptic



Category: Assassin's Creed
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Coffee, F/F, F/M, M/M, Shaun is still a barista, Volpelli
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-03-16
Updated: 2015-10-08
Packaged: 2018-03-18 03:42:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 15,485
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3554750
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Plenoptic/pseuds/Plenoptic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Volpe only frequents the coffee shop because it's close to work and makes a mean cup of hot chocolate- and because there's a weirdly cute political science student always hard at work in the corner. Volpelli.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Hot chocolate

**Author's Note:**

> This has been floating around in my documents forever, and upon rereading it I decided to let it go out into the world and make friends. Shameless and silly AU involving a weird mix of characters from the Ezio trilogy and coffee talk.

Volpe didn’t like coffee. Caffeine made him jittery, made his heart jump beats and his toes tap incessantly. But the coffee shop near his work made the most killer cup of hot chocolate, and so most mornings found Volpe standing in line with the caffeine junkies, hands in his pockets and staring at the stale pastries through the little window that guarded them.

“Hey, Gil.” Shaun quirked a smile at him, reaching for a paper cup. “Same as usual? Or are you ready to join civilized society and open your day with a cup of tea?”

“Yeah, no.” He tucked his hands in his pockets, digging for his wallet, wishing as always that he’d pulled it out before it was his turn. “Busy today.”

“Yes, well, that strange 'winter' phenomena is setting in.” A few quick taps on the register. “One fifty. Busy day lined up, mate?”

“Nah.” On cold days, the large-scale national bookstore with its own coffee place pulled customers in droves. The little shop where he worked usually attracted the folks who were having a poke around downtown when the weather was good. “Have a good one.”

“You too. Enjoy your sugary piss-milk.”

Volpe (after flipping Shaun a finger) took his drink and headed for his favorite chair in the back, picking up a copy of the newspaper as he went. He took a seat and put his feet up, sucking in a breath through his teeth when the hot chocolate scalded his tongue. He killed fifteen minutes skimming the front section of the paper, reading about another crooked politician with the barest amount of interest before tossing it aside and moving on to the classifieds. He had half a mind to replace his piece of shit car with a slightly less shitty piece of shit.

“Are you finished with this?”

“No,” Volpe said, distracted, and then realized he didn’t know to what the voice was referring. He glanced down at a hand wrapped around the discarded political section. “Oh, yeah, for sure.” Then he looked up, and saw him.

A young man hovered before him, one hand resting tentatively on the paper. For several long seconds Volpe could only stare, transfixed by the neat dark hair and snappy clothes, by the shrewd and narrow features, by the grey eyes watching him from behind black-rimmed glasses—

One eyebrow quirked upward. “Yes?”

Volpe had to swallow before he could speak. “Yeah. Go ahead.”

“Thank you.” The man collected the section and headed to a table on the other side of the room, taking a seat and opening the paper with a snap, lying it on the table before bending over it with a frown, his brows drawing together.

Volpe kept staring at him, his hot chocolate quite forgotten.

  


* * *

 

Over the next two weeks, Volpe learned two things. The young man with glasses drank a double breve with honey and an extra shot of espresso, and only read the frontmost section of the paper. There wasn’t much more he could glean in a coffee shop without actually talking to the guy. After twelve days he realized that he might learn his name when Shaun called him for his drink, but it took another week to get the timing right. Volpe wound up at the shop a full two hours before work. The young man showed up at seven on the dot and dropped his jacket off at his seat while he waited for his coffee. It seemed to take hours for Shaun to mix it, humming over the whine of machines, and approach the second counter, rotating the cup to read the name.

And that was how Volpe learned the guy’s name was Niccolò.

He felt kind of creepy and stalkerish—a casual introduction would have been easier—but something about the young man made him clam up. He prided himself on being a pretty suave guy. He’d really hit his stride in college, a sexual prime of sorts, and had enjoyed company from all walks of life. If he wanted someone, he usually got them. But three weeks of oggling that tall glass of water from across the shop was all he’d managed.

Niccolò wasn’t exactly conventionally attractive. He was no Adonis and no hunk and not the kind of guy girls whispered about the second his back was turned. But something about his tidy hair and geeky glasses and expressions of intense concentration made him cute. Oh, and the scarf, too. He wore a black scarf tucked down the front of his coat, and didn’t remove it after he sat down, but let it hang down his chest over his Henley shirts (and the fact that he wore Henleys was evidence of gay, absolutely had to be). Volpe entertained more than a few fantasies involving that scarf as a handhold to pull Niccolò in for all manner of naughty behavior.

Three weeks and four days after he gave the kid the paper, Volpe decided something had to be done. He only had three precious bits of information to go on, but he’d work with it. On the Friday of week four, he stepped up to the counter, watching Niccolò clacking away at his laptop while Shaun finished up the last order.

“Usual?”

“Uh?”

Shaun snapped his fingers in front of his face. “Gil. Usual?”

“Um—no.” He busied himself with pulling a few bills from his wallet. “I’ll take, uh, a double breve with honey. And espresso.”

Shaun raised his eyebrows. “How many?”

“What?”

“Shots of espresso?”

“Oh. Uh. One?”

"Was that a question or a statement?"

"Is one good?"

"For you? Yes, one is good."

"Then one."

“Coming up. Need an extra pick-me-up today?”

“Something like that.” He paid an exorbitant amount for his caffeine-hyped drink and carried it back to his seat, plopping himself down and looking suspiciously down at the paper cup. He set it down and took off the lid under the pretense of letting it cool while he snuck a look at Niccolò. The kid was bent over his keyboard, one hand tapping the keys while the other cradled his head, fisting in his hair. His brows drew together, and he dropped a finger onto the backspace key with a sigh.

Volpe tried to scooch his chair a little to the left, wondering what the kid was working on that was causing him so much frustration, and stopped himself. This was getting pathetic. He put the lid back on his coffee and lifted the cup for a delicate sip. His tongue revolted almost at once, but he soldiered through, chugging the first quarter of the cup without putting it down. It was bitter as hell, but the honey took the edge off. He smacked his lips, lifting it for a second swig, watching Niccolò over the rim.

 

* * *

 

“Is he cute?”

Volpe sighed, scowling at his friend lounging on the couch. “Can we not talk about this?”

Ezio grinned, propping his feet on the table. “We can’t not talk about this. How cute are we talking? Scale of one to ten. Des being a one, me being a ten.”

“Hey,” Desmond said, affronted, sitting down beside his cousin and giving him a shove.

Volpe pursed his lips. “Like a six point five. Call it seven. Eight if he’s scowling.”

“What the hell?”

“I dunno. He’s really cute when he scowls.” Volpe sighed again when Ezio and Desmond exchanged a look. “I know I’m not making any sense. Just help me out here.”

“Well, you should talk to him, to start,” Ezio said, moving over to make room when Volpe joined them on the couch. It was a Saturday, as lazy a day as any they’d ever enjoyed. The television was on mute, silencing what promised to be a boring game of soccer, and the frozen pizza in the oven was just starting to smell appetizing. “You creeped on him long enough to learn his name, but you should probably pretend you don’t know it when you talk to him.”

“Obviously,” Volpe said, peeved. “But what the hell should I talk about?”

“God, what are you, thirteen? Just go up and ask him if he plays for your team.”

“I’m pretty sure he does.”

“How can you tell?”

Because Henley never lied. Volpe shrugged. “My gaydar’s upgraded with all the latest software. It’s pretty high tech. Real top of the line kind of shit.”

“You can’t tell if someone’s gay just by looking at them,” Desmond said flatly. “Fucking gender roles, man. Learn to subvert stereotypes and shit.”

“What?”

“You need to talk to him regardless,” Ezio said, overriding what promised to be a lengthy debate. He got up to get the door when the bell rang. “But don’t be weird about it.”

“Weird about what?” Rebecca chirped, patting Ezio’s stomach as she stepped in and kicked off her shoes. “I have come with the gift of alcohol.”

“Gilberto has a charming new friend he hasn’t spoken to yet,” Ezio said, taking a bag of beer from her and sticking it in the fridge.

“Don’t call me that!”

“Where did he not-meet said charming new friend?”

“The coffee shop where he chills before work. Says the guy’s a seven, eight if he’s in a pissy mood.”

“Don’t be a dick,” Volpe said, his face growing warm when Rebecca smirked at him. “Jesus, I shouldn’t have said anything…”

“No, you shouldn’t have, learn your lesson,” Desmond said seriously, accepting the beer Ezio tossed him and popping it open with a grin. “Ah, _shit_ yes. Hey, is Lucy coming?”

“Later.” Rebecca plopped down in the recliner and stretched her legs, grinning when Desmond wilted. “Why don’t you just tell her you want to fuck her?”

“I don’t want to just fuck her, I want to marry her.”

“Sleep with her first. Then, when she says, ‘I love fucking you,’ get all dark and quiet and whisper ‘I fucking love you.’ _Then_ marry her ass.”

Ezio almost fell over laughing, which was a hazard, given that he had a hot pizza pan in his hands and a bad tendency to hurt himself doing stupid shit. Volpe got up to help him, sucking on his thumb when he burned it on the pan, and sliced the pie into four crudely cut pieces.

“So Desmond’s inefficiency aside, who’s this friend of yours?” Rebecca prompted, kicking Volpe in the leg when he sat back down.

He shrugged one shoulder, hanging a fang into his slice and chewing before answering. “He’s just a guy. I think he’s cute. I swear that’s it.”

“Yeah, but, he’s been pining over him for like four weeks now,” Ezio drawled, splaying out on the couch and happily munching away. If there was anything that made Ezio happy, it was good company and food. Mostly food. “He even drank coffee.”

“Uh, what?”

“Don’t ask.”

Rebecca arched an eyebrow but didn’t pursue it further. “Well, whatever. If you like him, Gil, just ask him out. You have checked him with your infallible gaydar, right?”

“Yep. I’m ninety-eight percent positive, give or take.”

“Sounds like a safe bet to me.” Rebecca shrugged and started on her pizza, while Volpe stared at her eating and wished he could absorb some of her sense of clarity.

* * *

 

 

Attempt one at speaking to Niccolò was a spectacular failure. Volpe headed toward his table, got within ten feet, then shook a sharp left and sat down on the other end of the shop and stared at his drink until Niccolò got up to leave. Attempt two brought him within five feet, but with the same end results. He knew he was overthinking it, that if he just relaxed, his usual charm would work its magic, but attempt three was worse than attempt one (twelve feet. Hell, he barely made it away from the counter).

On attempt four, he came up behind Niccolò’s chair, hovered awkwardly for a moment, and was about a microsecond away from ditching when his hand lifted, very much of its own accord and very much without his permission, and tapped the kid on the shoulder. And then, oh holy shit, oh holy fucking shit, Niccolò jumped a little and turned around, pushing his glasses up his nose.

“Yes?”

For a second, Volpe only stared. God damn, he was cute. Cuter every second, the way his brows drew together a little in confusion and his mouth tightened. There was an open word document on his computer, forty-seven pages in size eight font, why the hell would he use font that small? No wonder he needed glasses.

“How do you drink that shit?” Volpe asked, indicating Niccolò’s coffee.

The kid frowned, his head tipping ever so slightly to the left (cute, cute, goddamn _cute_ ). “Um. Excuse me?”

“That breve stuff.” Why the hell was he talking about this? Why the hell was he talking about this? Volpe grinned awkwardly. Too late to stop now. “I tried it. It’s awful.”

Well, it was almost a good try. Not really. Better to endure another four weeks of radio silence than be having this conversation. It would be a cute story to tell the grandkids they’d never have. ‘Hey Pops, how’d you meet Gramps?’ ‘Well, little Jimmy, it all started when I insulted his choice in caffeinated beverage.’

Niccolò frowned and scratched his ear. “My sister likes them. I don’t think they’re bad. Maybe you should have yourself tested for dysgeusia.”

Volpe blinked. “What?”

“Abnormal perception of taste? It’s common in patients undergoing chemotherapy, or asthmatics who use albuterol to control their symptoms.”

Volpe stared at him for seven seconds—he counted—and then Niccolò cracked the barest hint of a grin, and his stomach swooped. The kid was joking. Apparently that was his version of a _joke_.

“Oh. Yeah. Dys—whatever. Yeah. Must be that.” He smiled, feeling and looking stupid, and for another moment they stared at one another, devoid of anything worth saying. And then the cute little jackass adjusted his glasses and stuck his hand out, prompt and proper.

“I’m Niccolò.”

“Uh.” Volpe steeled himself before taking the proffered hand. The palm was warm, and the fingers grasped him gently. Not too tight as to be intimidating, not too loose as to be ineffectual. Perfectly neutral, almost calculated. “Gil. My friends call me Volpe.”

“You’ve just introduced yourself with two nicknames.”

“Yeah.” God, he hoped he didn’t look as nervous as he felt. “That’s just who I am.”

Niccolò arched an eyebrow. “Interesting.” And without another word, he turned back to his computer, and that was how it all began.

 

* * *

 

Niccolò was studying pre-law at the local university, but he preferred political science. Pre-law, he said, was sort of politics in action, and there was more money in it, if he was willing to bite the bullet and go to law school, and he wasn’t sure that was what he wanted to do. But his dad was a lawyer, and had been a good one before debt drove his practice under, and he got this look of such pride in his eyes when they talked about his son’s studies that Niccolò couldn’t bear to tell his old man about his reservations.

“So I keep taking law courses and studying politics on the side,” he said in conclusion, shrugging.

“Is it interesting, at least?”

“Law?” Niccolò snorted and shook his head. “No. But it’s easy. Leaves me free to pursue other things.”

Volpe nodded and sipped from his hot chocolate. He and Niccolò had been sitting together for three days now, and a comfortable rhythm had already developed between them. Volpe skimmed the paper and then handed the front section to Niccolò, who by that point was fed up with whatever he was working on and read a while to cool his head (because, apparently, in Niccolò-world, getting riled up about the local politicians and snarling under his breath about mediocrity and disgraces to the public forum counted as ‘cooling his head’).

“What do you do, Gilfredo?”

“Nope, wrong.” They’d made a game of Niccolò trying to guess Volpe’s name. “I work at the bookstore down the road.”

“Impossible.”

“What? Why?”

“Because I’m in there all the time, and I’ve never seen you once.”

“I don’t work evenings,” Volpe said, smiling over the rim of his cup. “You only go after class, yeah?”

“Oh, well.” Niccolò fidgeted with his scarf, a soft bloom of pink spreading across his cheeks. “Yes, I suppose. Is it fulfilling work?”

Volpe flicked an eyebrow upward. “Are you being sarcastic?”

“No, it’s a genuine inquiry.”

“Yeah, I like it. Antonio’s a cool guy—he owns the place. I mostly chill in the back and organize the shelves and read, so… yeah, it’s alright.”

Niccolò was grinning, this stupidly excited little boy’s smile that made Volpe’s stomach twist. “That sounds fantastic.”

“Yeah?” Volpe finished off his hot chocolate. “You want me to see if I can get you a job?”

“What? Are you serious?”

“Sure. Evening guy hates it—he and Antonio can’t stand each other.”

“Yes, I—I’d like that very much.”

Volpe smiled, cradling his chin in his palm, watching Niccolò blush. “I’ll talk to the boss.”

The kid’s face was radiant. He pushed his glasses up and adjusted his scarf. “Thank you.”

“Yeah. Don’t mention it.” And it took every ounce of willpower Gil had not to kiss the stupid kid.

 

* * *

 

Niccolò started at the bookshop a week later. Antonio liked him at once; they read all the same philosophers and plays and spent the Saturday of Niccolò’s orientation chatting it up at the counter while Volpe hauled boxes of new books out of the backroom and into the display window.

“Why didn’t you bring him around before?” Antonio demanded, pulling Volpe aside while Niccolò familiarized himself with the store catalog on the shitty computer. “And we’ve been putting up with that Duccio putz for two years! Ugh!”

“I just met the guy.” Volpe mopped his sweaty forehead, readjusting the bandanna that kept his dark curls out of his face. “Think he’ll work out?”

“Oh, yes. We’re all set. You meet him at your other job?"

Volpe swallowed. He didn't want to talk about his 'other job,' not with Antonio, and certainly not with Niccolò. "No. Coffee shop."

"Ah." He looked suspicious, but Antonio thankfully let it go. He grinned beneath his little mustache and nudged Volpe in the ribs. “He’s cute. You trying to nail him?”

“No,” Volpe retorted, but he felt his face grow hot, and Antonio laughed at him as he went about moving the rest of the boxes.

They wound up dicking around the shop for most of the day; their shifts technically ended at noon (Niccolò would work evenings starting that Monday), but there was enough to do and discuss that it was past four when the two younger men finally left, tired and sore from lifting endless boxes from Antonio’s cesspit of procrastination he called a storage.

“I like it,” Niccolò said, weary but obviously pleased. “It has a good feel to it.”

“Yeah, it does.”

“Thank you for putting in a good word for me.”

“No problem.”

They walked up the block in silence, and it wasn’t awkward exactly, but not quite amicable either. Volpe played with his car keys, glancing sideways at the kid walking beside him, and licked his lips before giving voice to something that had been bothering him awhile.

“How old are you?”

“Hm?” Niccolò pushed his glasses up and raised his eyebrows. “I’m twenty.”

Volpe blanched, skidded to a halt on the sidewalk and stared at him. “What?”

“Twenty,” Niccolò reiterated, confused. “Why?”

“Just… I…nothing.” Except it wasn’t nothing. It was eight years’ difference between them. It wasn’t criminal by any means, but Volpe had experienced a whole hell of a lot since dropping out of university after two years of the old college try. The man he’d been when he was just twenty was a completely different person, removed from his current sense of self entirely. “You want a ride home?”

“No, thank you. I live close, and I enjoy the walk.”

They came to a halt in the parking lot, and Niccolò hovered for a moment before offering the other man a smile.

“See you on Monday.”

“Yeah. Later.”

Niccolò tucked his hands in the pockets of his coat and turned away, his laptop bag bouncing against his hip, leaving Volpe feeling peculiar and empty in his wake.

 

* * *

 

That night he had the first wet dream he’d had in five years. He dreamt of Niccolò, of that quirky little smile. He took off his glasses, glanced up at Volpe through dark lashes and bit his lower lip before reaching out and tugging on the waistband of Volpe’s sweatpants, pulling it down and leaning in to lick his hard cock with a groan.

Volpe woke with an aching pressure in his crotch and dampness in his boxers. He pulled on his dick once, twice, three times and came with a grunt, closing his eyes and thinking of the kid with a taste for breves.

 

* * *

 

He was tired on Monday morning, and Niccolò talked him into trying hot chocolate with a single shot of espresso—the “poor man’s mocha”—and watched him drink it with an expectant look on his face.

“Good?”

Volpe shrugged and wiped whipped cream off of his mouth on the back of his hand. “Not bad.” He folded his arms on the table and rested his chin upon them, watching a satisfied Niccolò turn back to his computer. “What are you working on?”

“A paper.”

“Duh. But what’s it about?”

“It’s for a class on international relations.” Niccolò sipped from his drink, looking at his screen with a furrowed brow. “Entry level and boring.”

“Is anything not boring to you?” Volpe asked, knocking their shoulders together.

Niccolò scowled at him. “I have a great many interests, I’ll have you know. Books, for one. Poetry, theater, politics…” And then he stopped, struggling, and smiled ruefully when Volpe broke down into laughter. “Fine, come up with more than four things you’re genuinely passionate about.”

“Easy. Books. Hot chocolate—”

“That doesn’t count.”

“—taking risks. Fast cars. Taking walks at night. Sex.”

“Sex?”

Volpe smirked, chewing on the rim of his paper cup. “Yeah. I like it a lot.”

“Congratulations, you’re the average adult.” Niccolò canted his head to the side. “Are you gay?”

Volpe saw that question coming, but it still took him aback a little—not the fact that Niccolò had asked, but the casual way he did so. “Yep.”

The kid looked at him a moment longer, something unreadable in those grey eyes, and then he turned back to his computer with a mumble.

“Interesting.”


	2. Breve

Volpe worked a double shift on Tuesday under the guise of needing the extra cash, and told himself it had absolutely nothing to do with the spectacular view he got of Niccolò’s ass when the kid climbed up a ladder to reach the high shelves. Antonio left the shop to drop the day’s earnings off at the bank (he was terrible about remembering to clean out the safe), leaving Volpe in charge with a stern warning to run a tight ship.

“Are you planning on working?” Niccolò asked, looking down at him with a scowl.

Volpe grinned from his perch behind the register, his feet propped up on the counter. “Nah. I’m thinking about making this a malevolent dictatorship.”

Niccolò huffed and turned back to the shelf, shifting the heavy box tucked under his arm. “Unbelievable.”

“You gonna tattle on me?”

“No. I’m not a child. I’ll let you wallow in your own guilt.”

Volpe’s smile widened. He let his gaze caress Niccolò’s frame without reservation, taking in the long legs and pert little ass and narrow hips. Niccolò was curiously barrel-chested; his torso didn’t quite match his lower half, making him look a bit gawky and awkward. It made Volpe’s chest swell with affection. The kid was an oddball in more ways than one.

Something creaked, and Niccolò glanced down at the ladder. “Is this thing really safe?”

“Sure it is. I use it all the time.” Volpe dug underneath the counter and pulled out Antonio’s stash of cigarettes, pulling his lighter from his pocket and lighting up.

“Jesus, are you seriously smoking? What about the alarms?”

“None of them work. Want one?”

“No. I’m working.” Niccolò shook his head and turned back to the Hemingway collection he was shelving.

“Suit yourself.” Volpe tried to stash the box again and swore when he dropped it, sliding out of his seat to reach beneath the counter. A sharp crack, followed by a yell and thunderous clatter, made him jump and smash his head on the bottom of the countertop. Swearing again, he straightened, rubbing the back of his head.

“ _Fuck_. What the hell was—”

He froze. The ladder had fallen over, one rung near the top conspicuously broken, and Niccolò was half-buried beneath the entirety of the Hemingway.

“Oh, fuck!” Volpe scrambled around the counter and dropped to his knees, shoving piles of books away and pulling the kid upright. “Hey—Niccolò—”

Niccolò groaned, lifting a hand to his head. There was an ugly, bloody gash above his brow, spilling red down the side of his face.

“ _Ow_ …”

“Don’t, don’t touch it—come here—” Volpe pulled him to his feet and helped him to the counter, sitting him in Antonio’s chair and ducking into the employee bathroom to retrieve the roll of paper towels. He headed back to the counter and crouched down in front of Niccolò, pressing a wad of towels to the laceration and shivering at the sight of the blood.

“Does it hurt?”

“Not badly…” Niccolò looked drowsy; there was a paleness in his face that made Volpe’s stomach turn over. “Does it look bad?”

“Um, yes.” Volpe pulled the towels away and hurriedly reapplied them when blood dripped down Niccolò’s cheek. “Holy fuck, it’s bleeding a lot.”

“Head injuries usually do.”

“I think it needs stitches.”

Niccolò frowned. “Damn. Call an ambulance, I guess.”

“What? No, they’ll take too long—I’m driving you.”

“What about the shop?”

Fuck the shop. Volpe only shook his head and helped Niccolò up, wrapping an arm around his waist when the kid stumbled. “Easy, I’ve got you. Keep that on there, alright?”

They staggered out onto the sidewalk, only pausing long enough to lock the front door before making their awkward way toward the back parking lot. It was a bad time to be self-conscious about his piece of shit car, but Volpe still blushed as he fumbled with the keys and wrenched the half-broken passenger side door open.

“Can you buckle?”

“Yes,” Niccolò said; he at least had the presence of mind left to be grumpy. “I’m not an invalid.” But he gasped sharply when he pulled on the seatbelt and clenched his jaw. “Oh, fuck.”

“What?” Volpe pushed the key into the ignition, pausing with his hand on the gearshift.

“My wrist. I did something to it.”

“Er—fell off a ladder?”

“The ladder _broke_. Shut up and help me.”

Volpe smothered a smile, buckling Niccolò’s seatbelt before backing the car out of the lot. He did five above the speed limit, texting Antonio with one hand, ignoring Niccolò’s looks of disbelief and disapproval.

“My God, get us in a car accident while you’re at it.”

“Man, shut up, I’m driving fine.”

“For now. You realize texting while driving distracts you just as much as texting while inebriated?”

“Bullshit.”

Niccolò leaned back against his seat, closing his eyes and swallowing audibly. “Pull over.”

“Can’t, I’m in the middle of traffic.”

“I’m going to vomit.”

“Oh, _shit._ ” Volpe pulled over, sliding into a zone distinctly marked No Parking and sticking up a finger at a passing car when the driver honked loudly. Niccolò had pushed his door open and leaned over the sidewalk, and made good on his word—he was retching violently, his shoulders shaking.

“God _damn_ ,” he groaned, sitting up and wiping his mouth on his trembling hand. “Go already.”

“You good?”

“Yes, just go.” Niccolò pulled the door closed and closed his eyes again, gritting his jaw, and they made it to the closest clinic without further incident.

The waiting room smelled like old folks and diapers filled with shit; Volpe wrinkled up his nose (he’d always had a damn sensitive sense of smell) as they entered, helping Niccolò into the nearest chair before fetching the paperwork from a smiling nurse behind the counter.

“Is there someone who can see him, uh, quickly?” he asked, stepping back to indicate Niccolò. “He hit his head, he’s bleeding a lot.”

She raised her eyebrows. “Nausea? Vomiting?”

“Yeah.”

“I’ll bump him up the list. You should probably have taken him to the ER.”

“Oh. Yeah? Er, sorry.”

“Don’t worry, love, just fill out the paperwork, there’ll be a doctor along shortly.” She turned back to her computer, and he headed back to the sitting area, plopping down beside Niccolò.

“So, uh, I’ll just fill this in for you?” Volpe offered the kid a hesitant grin, propping the clipboard up on his knee. “Name?”

Niccolò sat very still for several seconds, blinking at the ceiling, clearly struggling. When he did speak, he did so hesitantly. “...Niccolò.”

“Middle initial?”

“B.”

“What’s it stand for?”

“None of your business.”

“Bitch? Got it. Height, weight, eye color, hair color?”

“Five nine, one eighty, use your eyes.”

“Tiny thing, aren’t you.”

“I’m perfectly average. Don’t antagonize me, I’ll vomit on you.”

“Please don’t.” Volpe filled out the rest of the paperwork, attempting to keep his snark to a minimum; he felt somewhat guilty for the role he’d played in Niccolò’s injury. “Who do you want for the emergency contact?”

“No one.”

“Come on. Pretty sure they have to have one.”

“You be my emergency contact.”

Volpe sighed and rolled his eyes. “Fine. Are you on bad terms with your folks or something?”

“No.” Niccolò abruptly slumped sideways, his head falling against Volpe’s shoulder. For a moment Volpe panicked, but then the kid spoke again in a mumble. “I’m really tired.”

“Uh, don’t go to sleep, okay? Pretty sure that’s the last thing you’re supposed to do.”

“I know that,” Niccolò grumbled, his speech slurred slightly. “Okay, fine. Put my dad.”

“I don’t know your dad.”

“He’s in my phone.”

Volpe hesitated before slipping his hand into Niccolò’s pants pocket, repressing a shiver when he felt the slim thigh beneath his fingertips, and withdrew Niccolò’s piece of crap flip phone. He opened it up and scrolled through the startlingly long list of contacts (a lot of girls names, even a suspiciously large amount), coming up with nothing under ‘Dad’ or ‘Father’ or anything one might list their parent under.

“Um…?”

Niccolò stirred and lifted his head, tightening his grip on the paper towels. “Bernardo.”

“Ah. B?”

“Shut up.”

Volpe smiled and jotted down the listed number. The area code was local; so Niccolò’s folks lived in the same state, at least. The pretty nurse gestured to them from the door, and he helped Niccolò onto his feet, guiding him back toward the exam room and handing the nurse the clipboard.

“Do you want to wait with him?” she asked Volpe.

“Yeah, if that’s alright.”

“I don’t need you to wait,” Niccolò said, and then leaned over the side of the chair and vomited. The nurse was on it, getting under his head with the trash can and dropping paper towels on the puddle of sick.

“I’ll be right back.”

Volpe nodded, pulling up a chair beside the younger man and pressing fresh paper towels to the leaking wound on his brow while the nurse hurried from the room. “Does it hurt?”

“You already asked me that, and no.”

“Sorry.” Volpe sat down and tapped his hands against his thighs, looking around the exam room. There was a poster on the wall detailing the inner workings of the human ear, right next to a large plastic model of a heart. “So.”

Niccolò cracked an eye open to glare at him. “Please don’t try to make small talk.”

“Sorry.”

“And stop apologizing.”

“S— alright.”

They spent five minutes in almost painful silence before the doctor stepped in, offering them a too-white smile and pulling on a pair of gloves as he introduced himself. His words went right over Volpe’s head; he was too busy watching Niccolò, trying to steel his stomach when it twisted at the sight of the bright blood smeared across the kid’s face.

“—out?”

“What?” Volpe looked up, blinking at the doctor. “Sorry, I wasn’t…”

“Would you prefer to step out?” The doctor had pulled over a rolling tray decorated with all manner of malicious-looking instruments, including a wickedly large syringe and curved needle.

“I’ll be fine,” Niccolò said, nudging an elbow into Volpe’s side. “You can head out.”

“Uh, no. I’m good. I’m fine.”

The doctor shrugged and set to work, pulling away the paper towels and rinsing out the gash. Volpe swallowed and looked down, focusing on the laces on Niccolò’s boots, tight and perfect. A minute passed in concentrated quiet; the doctor picked up the syringe and jabbed it at Niccolò’s forehead. The kid stuck it out wordlessly, and Volpe couldn’t help but be impressed. He’d be squealing like a baby.

“Holy hell, you’re squeamish,” Niccolò said quietly, and Volpe looked up to find him smiling, that wonderful little quirk of the left side of his mouth.

“I guess.”

Niccolò smirked, letting the doctor tilt his head to the side so he could begin stitching the laceration. “You’re such a baby.”

“Man, shut the hell up.”

“What happened, anyway?” the doctor asked conversationally, his voice muffled a little by his surgical mask (bad idea to breathe all over open injuries, Volpe supposed). “Take a steel bat to the head?”

“Fell off a ladder.”

“Ah, gotta be careful. You live alone?”

“Yes?”

“Find a place to crash tonight. You’ll want someone checking on you every few hours.” The doctor knotted the last stitch and sat back, pulling down his mask and nodding at his work. He set about applying a bandage, taping a square of gauze to Niccolò’s forehead. “And I think I’m going to have you go see the head trauma specialist at the hospital for an MRI, just so we can check the severity of your concussion. You in school?”

Niccolò stared at him, blinking slowly, and Volpe answered for him. “Yeah, he is. Does he need to stay out?”

“For a week or so, at the very least. I can have a call put out to his professors…?”

“I’ll get you names tomorrow?”

“Perfect. Are you his…?” The doctor made an awkward hand motion. “I mean, will you be watching him tonight?”

“I’m not his—no. We just work together. But, um, yeah, I’ll take him back to my place.” It was close to eight in the evening, and Niccolò looked like shit.

“Do you have his insurance information?”

Niccolò abruptly grabbed Volpe’s sleeve, speaking in a mumble. “I don’t have any.”

“No insurance?”

“No. I mean, yes.” Niccolò furrowed his brow and cradled his head. “I don’t know. Damn, I’m tired.”

“I’ll pay for it,” Volpe said to the doctor. “Does he need painkillers?”

“No—he’ll have a headache, but we need to know if the pain gets worse.”

Volpe continued with his volley of questions as he helped Niccolò back into the waiting room, plopping him down in a chair while the doctor called over to the hospital to talk to the MRI specialist. Niccolò sat obediently, blinking around the room, frowning at a potted plant in the corner.

“You okay?” Volpe crouched down at his side, giving his shoulder a gentle shake when the kid didn’t respond. “Hey, answer me.”

“I’m okay,” Niccolò replied, his speech slow and deliberate. “But I should have taken that class on Plato.”

Volpe sighed and patted his back. “Yeah, alright.” He got to his feet and rejoined the doctor and nurse at the counter. He shelled out a hundred bucks for the visit (which meant no more hot chocolate for a while) and confirmed with the MRI guy over the phone that they were on their way.

 

* * *

 

It was midnight by the time Volpe dragged his moderately concussed cargo into his apartment. The place was a sty; he’d never been much concerned with cleaning, even less so when his love life was practically negligible. He was lucky that Niccolò was too far out of it to comment.

“You need the bathroom or anything?”

“No.” Niccolò blinked. “Yes.”

“Which is it?”

“No.”

Volpe huffed and pulled him into the bedroom, dropping him on the bed like a sack of potatoes and pulling his phone out of his pocket. He had eight missed calls, all from Antonio. He tapped out a text assuring his boss that Niccolò was fine, concussed but alive, and hadn’t mentioned a lawsuit or workers’ comp yet, and tossed the phone onto his dresser.

“Can you get undressed?”

Niccolò was splayed out on the bed, his arms straight out to his sides and his legs dangling off the bed at the knee. He lifted his head and frowned at Volpe. “What?”

“Take your clothes off.”

“I don’t want to have sex.”

“I’m—” Volpe paused, pinching the bridge of his nose. “We’re not having sex. I just want you to get comfortable. Alright? You want to borrow some sweatpants?”

“...What?”  
“Christ, man. You are going to be so pissed about busting your brain when this shit heals.” He crouched down and pulled off Niccolò’s boots. His socks matched. Go figure. “You’re wearing underwear, right?”

“Yep.” Niccolò laid his head back and closed his eyes, content to let Volpe undo his belt and pull down his corduroys. “Yep. Yes.”

“I got it.” Volpe resisted the urge to laugh, coaxing Niccolò into sitting up long enough that he could pull off his coat and scarf. “You need some water or something?”

Niccolò shook his head. “I’m fine. I’m concussed. I have a concussion.”

“Yeah, you do.”

It took another three minutes of careful explanation and gentle guidance to get Niccolò situated in bed. He curled up on his side beneath the blankets, pulling a pillow over his head with a low groan.

“What’s up?”

“Hurts.”

Volpe frowned, reaching out to touch him and rethinking it at the last moment. “I’ll be back to check on you in a few hours, alright? I’m just going to crash on the couch. Shout if you need something. Okay?”

“Okay.”

“Okay.” Volpe patted his shoulder somewhat awkwardly and got to his feet, padding out of the room and throwing himself down on the couch. He didn’t feel tired, not in the least. The young man who had been haunting his erotic dreams was curled up on his bed. Volpe bit his lower lip and closed his eyes, trying to derail his thoughts, but it was too late—his dick was stiffening in his sweats.

God damn it. Resigned, he rolled onto his back, set an alarm on his phone for three hours, and slid a hand into his pants. He was in for a long night—he might as well enjoy himself.

 

* * *

 

 

Volpe woke up to a banging on the door. He ignored it for two full minutes before it intensified, and he forced himself off the couch, shuffling across his apartment to answer it. He wasn’t at all surprised to see Ezio and Leonardo on the other side, one grinning, the other looking apologetic.

“Hey, Gil! About time, man. You still in?”

Volpe stared at them, rubbing his eyes. “What?”

“Camping?” Ezio raised his eyebrows, indicating his beanie, because Ezio wouldn’t be caught dead in a hat unless camping was involved. “Let’s go!”

“Oh. Shit. Uh, no.” Volpe ran a hand through his hair, mussed from sleep. “Something came up. I need to stay here.”

“Why?” Leo asked, looking crestfallen. “We’ve been planning this for weeks.”

“It’s—ugh. You guys wanna come in?”

They shuffled inside, grumbling, and made themselves comfortable in the kitchen while Volpe put on hot water for tea, ignoring Ezio’s griping about the chronic lack of coffee in his friend’s apartment.

“Keep it down, will you? He’s sleeping,” Volpe said, chucking a towel at his friend.

“Who’s sleeping?” Ezio’s eyebrows lifted, and a grin twisted his face before Volpe could recant his mistake. “Oh, _shit_. Oh, you didn’t. Coffee shop guy?”

“No—well, yes, but look, it’s not like that, I didn’t—” He froze, horror turning his stomach inside-out. The subject of their hushed conversation had just stepped out of the bedroom, looking like absolute shit. “Hey, Niccolò. Morning. Should you be, uh, out of bed?”

“I don’t know.” Niccolò cradled a hand to his head, leaning his weight against the fridge, and squinted at him. “Where am I?”

“My place.” Volpe scratched the back of his neck, his cheeks burning under Ezio and Leo’s intent stares. “This is, uh, Niccolò, you guys. From work. This is Ezio and Leonardo.”

Niccolò seemed content to acknowledge them with a nod, and started when Ezio jumped to his feet and crossed the kitchen to shake his hand enthusiastically.

“Nice to meet you, man. I’ve heard a lot. Only good things.”

“You have?” Niccolò’s eyebrows twitched upward. “Why?”

“Just work stuff,” Volpe said, jumping in when Ezio’s shit-eating smile only widened. “Hey, how’s your head?”

“It hurts like a bitch,” Niccolò said, still watching Ezio warily when the bigger man sat back down. “I assume I have a concussion?”

“Yeah. You’re talking better today, though, so that’s got to be a good sign. You hungry?”

“Um, no.” Niccolò stuck his hands in his pockets, looking hopelessly awkward. “I, um, called a cab.”

“What?” Volpe swore when he poured hot water on his hand; he hadn’t been paying attention the cup he was pouring. “Why? You can stay, it’s fine.”

“I don’t want to impose.”

“You’re not, you’re—shit, man, you busted your head open yesterday. And, hell, I’m the one who gave you that ladder, so…” Volpe gestured around his apartment. “I know it’s crappy, but _mi casa_ is _tu casa_. Okay?”

Niccolò just stared at him, something cautious in his eyes—which were brilliant and beautiful when they weren’t obscured by his glasses—and nodded at length. “Yeah. Okay. If you don’t mind.”

“No, man. It’s fine.” Volpe found himself grinning, probably looking like an idiot, but Niccolò’s mouth quirked upward, and for a moment they stood there smiling at each other until Ezio cleared his throat loudly.

“So, uh, no camping for you, I guess. We’ll just be going then. Great outdoors calls. And all that.” He got to his feet, clapping Leo on the shoulder. “Have fun, boys. Be good.”

They trooped out—Volpe heard Ezio promising to give Leo all the details later right before the door closed. He cleared his throat and glanced at Niccolò, who was looking around the apartment with apparent interest.

“I’m really sorry about the ladder. I knew it was a piece of shit, I shouldn’t have sent you up there.”

Niccolò began to shake his head and stopped very quickly, wincing. “Ow. It’s fine. Shit happens, as they say. I don’t suppose you have any coffee?”

“Should you be drinking it?”

“I get migraines if I don’t have caffeine.”

Volpe blinked. “I think that’s called withdrawal symptoms, man.”

“I’m well aware that I’m an addict. Is that a no?”

“Yeah—let me run down to the coffee shop. Double breve with honey and an extra shot, yeah?”

Niccolò smiled at him. “Yes.”

His drive down to the shop took all of about five minutes. He parallel parked (poorly) and traded a few jibes with Shaun before heading down to the bookstore, wishing he’d grabbed coffee last; it was awkward as hell weaving through the throngs of early-morning commuters while juggling two piping hot drinks.

Antonio looked up when he entered and slammed his book shut, getting to his feet. “Jesus, there you are! How’s the kid?”

“He seems alright. Head hurts. He stayed at my place last night.” Volpe set down the drinks, sucking some spilled hot chocolate on his hand. “Cool if we don’t come in today? I don’t think I’m supposed to leave him alone.”

“I was going to close up shop. It’s cold as hell out there, we’re going to be slow.” Antonio shot him a smarmy look. “You didn’t do anything to him, did you?”

“Christ, man, what the fuck kind of creep do you think I am? No, I put him in my bedroom and crashed on the couch.” And jacked off to the mere thought of him, but that was another matter.

“He didn’t say anything about suing?”

“No, Antonio. But his head is so fucked he can barely think.”

“Well, don’t bring it up.”

“I’m not going to bring up legal action with—” Volpe paused. Shit. A lawyer’s kid, a pre-law student, and damn good at it. Even concussed, Niccolò was probably thinking about the legal implications of what had happened. A suit could put the shop under, easy. “I won’t bring it up, Antonio, don’t worry.”

He left feeling a little anxious, balancing the drink holder on his knee while he steered his shitty car (which smelled faintly of blood) back to his equally shitty apartment complex. A lot of shit in his life, he mused, parking on the side street and mounting the interminable flights of stairs up to his apartment. His house, his car, his job (both of them), his future—but at least there was a very cute boy in the mix now.

Said cute boy was strung out across the couch when Volpe entered. He’d commandeered a pair of sweatpants and a hoodie, both of which were far too large on him, and replaced his glasses. His hair was untidy for once; it stuck up at all sorts of odd angles, making him look vaguely like a very studious hedgehog, and Volpe tried to memorize the sight of him and not imagine waking up to that every morning.

“Coffee,” he said, sitting down on the floor and passing the breve up. He tipped his hot chocolate up to his mouth. Lukewarm chocolate now. Oh well. “What are you watching?”

“A documentary on the—”

“Yuck. Do you watch Archer?”

Niccolò sighed. “No.”

“It’s on Netflix.”

“I don’t have Netflix.”

“Get it. You won’t even notice you’re spending eight bucks a month.”

“I don’t have an extra eight bucks a month,” Niccolò grumped, and sipped his coffee.

Volpe’s stomach made a funny turn, and he swallowed. “Money pretty tight?”

“Always. My dad isn’t the greatest when it comes to finances.”

“That sucks. How are you paying for school? Loans?”

“I have a full ride.”

Volpe choked, coughing up chocolate, and looked up at the younger man with watering eyes. “Jesus, really? That’s impressive, man. I knew you were smart, but—shit. It’s a pretty good university, isn’t it? And they’re paying for you to study there?”

“I suppose that’s one way of looking at it, yes.” Niccolò shrugged, looking a little uncomfortable. “Let me guess—Antonio is worried I’ll litigate?”

“Uh—”

“You don’t have to play dumb. I know how these things work, and you can tell him I have no interest in putting his business under.” Niccolò smiled wryly. “Just tell him to invest in a new ladder, and he had better not fire me anytime soon.”

Volpe laughed, relief making him feel light. “Thank God. It would suck if I had to go find another job. Hard enough to land these two.”

“Two?” Niccolò put his feet  up on the coffee table. “Where else do you work?”

Volpe froze. Oh, shit. Stupid idiot big mouth. “Nowhere interesting. The shop is the lesser of two evils.” He kept talking before Niccolò could pursue the subject. “Where were you before Antonio hired you?”

“Ah. Nowhere, really. I wrote a little. Freelance articles.”

“You supported yourself on freelance articles? Food and rent and everything?”

Niccolò snorted and ran a hand through his messy hair. “Alright, I wrote a lot. Ran blogs with ads, did newspaper editorials, ghost-writing, editing, scouted manuscripts for small publishers—if I wasn’t in class or studying, I was writing.”

“The bookshop is better than that, I hope.”

“Yeah. No comparison. I like writing, and I’m quite good, but I prefer reading.”

Volpe snorted and got to his feet, ruffling the kid’s hair. “Cocky thing, aren’t you.”

“Just brutally honest.”

“To a fault.”

“Shut up.”

Volpe laughed, tried to ignore the way his fingers tingled and his heart raced, forced himself to remove his hand from Niccolò’s head before it became awkward or suspicious. God, what he wouldn’t give to just kiss him.

“Let me ask you something potentially weird.”

Niccolò finished off his breve and wiped his mouth on his shirt. “What’s that?”

“Are you into guys?”

A pause—a weighty one, Volpe thought, and he didn’t look up, focusing too intently on his socks. When Niccolò answered, he spoke slowly and cautiously.

“I don’t particularly identify as homosexual. My only serious relationship was with a woman. But I am attracted to men, yes. Sexually, at least. I can’t comment on romance yet.”

“Never tried having a boyfriend?”

“Never had time. School, you know.”

“Yeah, I know.” But he didn’t, because Volpe’s time in college had been almost hilariously nonacademic. He got straight Cs for four semesters and then dropped out, and he had plenty of boyfriends over two years. He probably couldn’t even name them all. Niccolò lived in an entirely different world, and that reality settled like a rock in Volpe’s stomach.

“You identify as gay, yes?” Niccolò asked, and pulled in his legs, patting the couch. “You can sit up here if you’d like. I’ll stop taking up the entirety of your furniture.”

Volpe snorted. “Thanks.” He took a seat, splaying out his legs. The television was muted; the documentary seemed to be about kids with guns in Africa. How uplifting. “I’ve only ever wanted to date guys. Didn’t have crushes on girls, even when I was a kid.”

“What was that like? Growing up knowing.”

“Hell,” Volpe said simply, shrugging. “My dad used to wail on me for it—trying to beat me straight, he’d say. Called me fag and fairy and all sorts of horrible shit. My mom just prayed for me.”

Niccolò shifted in his seat, clearly uncomfortable. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. I blew out of that house when I was fourteen. Bounced around between friends and shelters.” And spent two years as a prostitute, giving head and handjobs to any old fart who wanted it, sold his sex like it was candy, but he kept that to himself. “But it’s alright, you know? If my folks would treat me like that over shit that didn’t have anything to do with them, they couldn’t have loved me much to begin with.”

“That’s—I still feel like I should be saying I’m sorry.”

“Nah. It is what it is. And I’m good now.” He grinned and nudged Niccolò’s shoulder with his own. “Being gay is great. You should give it a try.”

Niccolò grunted. “Yeah, right. I don’t know what self-respecting gay man wants a bi-curious, politically obsessed, emotionally handicapped partner.”

And then Volpe—because he was himself, and because he’d never been able to control the stupid shit that came out of his mouth—said “I might.”

Niccolò looked at him, his normally contemplative expression completely derailed by abject shock. “Oh,” he said.

Volpe stared back at him, at a loss for words. What the hell could he say? He inhaled, entranced by Niccolò’s eyes, by his messy hair, by the way the hoodie seemed to swallow him up. His stupid mouth kept running, because he was too distracted to stop it. “You want to try?”

“I—what?”

“Being with a guy.” Oh shit, oh fuck, no, this was not— no, come on, if he had any chance at all he had surely just—

Niccolò’s phone rang. He jumped, even flailed a little, and grabbed it off the table. “I have to, um—I—”

“Yeah, no, I mean—go ahead—” Volpe kicked himself mentally, watching Niccolò’s retreating back in utter misery. The tips of the boy’s ears were red. He flipped his phone open— “Hey”— and closed the bedroom door, muffling his conversation.

Stupid. Stupid. Volpe leaned his head back and closed his eyes, hating himself. What was wrong with just sitting here and chatting and enjoying one another’s company? Why had he had to fucking proposition a straight (?) boy with a concussion, for fuck’s sake? A coworker he barely knew? Just because Niccolò was cute, and smart, and because he looked so precious in Volpe’s clothes…

“Gil?”

He lifted his head, opened his eyes. “Yeah?”

“That was my—” Niccolò stopped, obviously struggling. “I need a favor. A big one.”

“Yeah, man. Anything.”

“I—” Niccolò winced and scratched the back of his neck. “I have a kid.”

Volpe stared at him. He felt his eyebrows raising. “What?”

“I have a daughter. A three-year-old. Her mom can’t pick her up from daycare, I need to go get her, but…” He indicated his head with a grimace. “Pretty sure I’m not supposed to operate heavy machinery.”

“Yeah. Uh. Probably not.” Volpe got to his feet, rubbing his eyes. “Sorry, I’m a little… a _kid_?”

Niccolò blew out a breath. “Yeah. I can explain on the way.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This work not sponsored by Netflix.


	3. Steamer

It was the most brutally awkward car ride Volpe had ever endured. Hands-down. No contest. He let the radio play softly, praying it would break up the horrible silence, but it was one of those chart-topping hits containing too much sexual innuendo to be entirely radio-appropriate. The crooning refrain of “I want to _bleep_ you in the backseat” did little to alleviate the weirdness between them.

“Left up here.”

“What?”

Niccolò indicated the stoplight. “You’ll want to hang a left.”

“Oh. Right. Thanks.”

“No, left.”

“Don’t be a smartass.” He readjusted his grip on the wheel. His phone buzzed, but he resisted the urge to check it, lest Niccolò freak out about his driving habits again. “So, uh, how’d you wind up with a kid?”

“How most people wind up with kids. I got a girl pregnant.”

“Well, yeah, but—”

“I know what you meant.” Niccolò rubbed a hand through his hair, now neatly combed, much to Volpe’s disappointment. “We were sixteen. Grew up together, promised each other we would get married someday, stupid shit like that. And then we started fooling around, because that’s what idiot kids do, and like idiot kids we weren’t careful enough. She got pregnant, and our folks forced us to get married.”

“At sixteen? Jesus.”

Niccolò’s smile wasn’t quite bitter, but there was no warmth in it. “Old Italian families. There’s only one honorable thing to do when you put a baby in a woman, and that’s put a ring on her finger, so I did.”

“So you—what, you have a wife?”

“We split when we were eighteen. I wanted to go to school, and she wanted a husband who actually loved her.”

“The nerve of some people. This is why I don’t date chicks.”

Niccolò laughed. “Sage advice.”

“It’s good of you not to walk out on the kid, though. Decent.”

Niccolò was quiet for a moment; Volpe chanced a sideways glance at him, and his heart melted. Niccolò was smiling,  genuinely now, and it softened his features, warmed his eyes.

“I love that kid.”

“What’s her name?”

“Primerana.”

“Mm.” Volpe nodded. “Pretty.”

“I thought so.”

“You named her?”

“Yes. The second she popped out. I was just a stupid kid, holding this tiny little thing I had helped create, and I looked down at her and I just… well, anyway. I knew her name. I knew it immediately, like I had known it my whole life.” Niccolò sucked in a breath and dragged a hand through his hair. “Anyway. All of her stuff is at my place, so you can drop us off there. And I want to thank you for everything. I’ll pay you back for the doctor’s bill.”

“You can keep staying with me, you know—someone should probably look after you.”

“I do have family, Gil. I’ll be fine.”

“Yeah, but—” Volpe shrugged. “This is my fault, you know? Don’t put anyone else out. I’ll crash at your place and look after the kid so you can rest. Okay? And drive you to work or wherever, because I’m pretty sure you shouldn’t be out walking around.”

Niccolò shifted in his seat. “You have a very weird sense of duty.”

“Well, you fell off a ladder—”

“It broke.”

“—after I told you it was safe, so, yeah, this one is kind of on me. Besides, I like kids.”

Niccolò sighed. “Fine. Just for tonight.”

“The doctor says you’ll be out of it for at least a week.”

“Tonight, okay?”

Volpe grinned. “Yeah, okay.”

The daycare was a yellow cement building right at the edge of the upper-class neighborhoods. Volpe slowed down until the speedometer needle read under ten, leaning forward and scanning the road warily for errant toddlers. A mom hurried across the crosswalk, trailing three squealing kids behind her. She glanced up at their car and waved. Niccolò winced and waved back.

“Friends with all the moms, huh? Nice.”

“Oh, shut up. Pull over here.”

Volpe did as instructed, parking in the little lot and getting out after Niccolò. He probably could have waited, but there was something he wanted to see, something that happened in all those heart-warming movies about single dads learning how to be better parents, and he wanted to know if reality held up.

Niccolò strode across the parking lot, pausing briefly to say hello to a young woman carrying a fussy little boy on her hip, and jogged up the sidewalk toward the building. Volpe followed, making note of a few curious stares when he dogged Niccolò’s heels.

And then he heard it—pattering little footsteps, a keychain jingling, and the thing he’d really been hoping he’d get to hear.

“ _Daddy_!”

And it really was just like in the movies. Niccolò grinned and dropped to one knee, opened up his arms, and moments later they were filled with a giggling little girl. Volpe stopped in his tracks, something hard tightening in his throat while Niccolò pressed kisses into his daughter’s dark curls.

“Hi, kiddo. How was your day?”

“Good! I made a butterfly!” She waved a piece of paper in his face.

“Hey, that’s pretty good. How’d you do in reading?”

“I spelled butterfly!” She beamed and indicated the comically large letters below her drawing (B-U-D-U-R-F-L-I). Abruptly her little face fell, and she reached out to touch the gauze on his forehead. “You got an ouch.”

“Yep. I hit my head.”

“Dad- _dy_.”

“I know, I know. Clumsy.” He got to his feet and took her hand, waving to the daycare staff over his shoulder and leading the kid toward Volpe. “This is my friend Gil. Can you say hi?”

Primerana blinked rapidly, then released her father’s hand and ducked behind his legs. Niccolò smiled up at Volpe and shrugged.

“She’s shy.”

“It’s good. We’ll be buddies in no time.” She was a cute kid, all round cheeks and big doe eyes. She wore a blue coat and a scarf, like her dad’s, tucked down the front. “She really looks like you, man.”

“I know. Drives Marietta crazy.”

Primerana tilted her head back. “Where’s Mom?”

“She had a big meeting, so you’re gonna stay with me tonight. Is that okay?”

The little girl’s face lit up, and she bobbed her head up and down. “Yep!”

They all piled into the car—Niccolò made Primerana promise not to tell Mom that she’d been in a car without her carseat—and swung by Volpe’s place so he could pack an overnight bag. Primerana was chattering when he got back into the car, talking to her dad very seriously about a squirrel she’d seen in the trees that morning, while he nodded, his face stretched in a wide smile.

Niccolò’s apartment looked—at least on the outside—at least as shitty as Volpe’s, if not slightly shittier. Primerana hopped up the stairs “like a bunny,” and bounced on the balls of her feet outside the door of 2B while her father jiggled the key in the lock. It swung open and she bounded inside, leaving her caretakers to troop in after her.

It was meticulously neat, exactly as Volpe had expected—and, also as expected, an entire wall of the living room was lined with bookshelves stuffed nearly to bursting, every book arranged alphabetically by author (and then by title). Niccolò hovered in the entryway and mumbled “This is it,” looking so awkward and cute that Volpe fought down the urge, for the thousandth time, to lean in and kiss him.

“Daddy, I’m hungry,” Primerana announced, padding back into the living room. Volpe was a little sad to see she’d taken off her scarf, but now a large stuffed lion trailed from her little hand.

“What sounds good?”

“Mac and cheese!”

He grinned and picked her up, setting her in a stool by the kitchen counter. “Your mom’ll kill me if I feed you junkfood. You need to pick a veggie, okay?”

“Apples!”

“Not a veggie, kiddo, but you can have that, too.” Niccolò raised an eyebrow at Volpe. “Are you capable of making mac and cheese?”

“You are looking at the uncontested champion of Easy Mac, my friend. I’m on it.” Volpe rolled up his sleeves and accepted the box. “Do you have hotdogs?”

“Um—yes?”

“You ever put hotdogs in the mac and cheese? You will be the favorite parent for the rest of your life.”

“I haven’t got a grill…”

“I’ll pan-fry ‘em.” Volpe patted his shoulder. “Leave the food to me. Hang out with your kid. I told you, I’ve got your back.”

Niccolò rolled his eyes. “Alright. Make sure everything’s cooked all the way through, please. If you poison my kid, I’ll do a h— _heck_ of a lot worse than knock you off a ladder.”

Volpe grinned. “Fair enough.”

* * *

Dinner actually turned out damn well, if Volpe did say so himself. Niccolò was poor, but he kept his fridge well-stocked with fresh food for Primerana and a cabinet full of ramen noodles for himself. Volpe got creative, ditched the synthetic cheese powder for freshly grated cheddar and mozarella, poked a chopstick through each hotdog and packed them with cheddar before throwing them on the pan. He found frozen broccoli in the freezer and cooked it up in butter and olive oil. There was only so much one could do with apples, but he diced Primerana’s and arranged them in a smiley face on her plate, which made her squeal and drum her heels on her chair.

There was something satisfying about just watching Niccolò and Primerana eat. They sat the same way, both chewed with their eyes down, even rotated their plates the same small fractions to get at the rest of their meal once one section was cleared. Volpe found himself fascinated; he couldn’t remember the last time he’d watched a loving parent and child interact. Something about it hurt, but it wasn’t necessarily a bad hurt—more of a longing, a desire for something he’d never had.

“Thanks,” Niccolò said, once he’d wolfed down three quarters of his food like he hadn’t eaten in days. “This was a thousand times better than anything I’d have scraped together.”

“No problem. Sorry again about the ladder.”

“You won me over with the hotdogs.”

“Then my diabolical plan is working.” Volpe nudged Primerana with a foot. “Whatcha say, kiddo? Good?”

“Yummy,” she said around a mouthful of pasta, and swallowed thickly when Niccolò gave her an expectant look. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

“Can I have juice?”

“Milk,” Niccolò said, shaking his head when she gave him puppy eyes that would have won Volpe over in an instant. “No, Prima.”

“Dad- _dy_ …”

“Hey, kiddo, you want a steamer?” Volpe asked.

“What’s that?”

“They’re good. They make them at my favorite coffee shop.”

She brightened. “Yes!”

Volpe didn’t have the means to make a steamer, of course, but he warmed a mug of milk in the microwave and added a few drops of vanilla, then topped it with whipped cream. Close enough for a kid, anyway. Primerana set upon it greedily, making eyes over the rim of the mug at her dad like she’d just pulled one over his head. He pinched her nose and went back to his dinner.

“Was Antonio alright with us not coming to work today?”

“Yeah. Shop’s fine, don’t worry about it. He closes up if he feels like it’s gonna be a slow day.”

Niccolò arched an eyebrow. “That’s so irresponsible.”

“Maybe you can knock some good business sense into him.”

“I don’t know the first thing about running a business.”

“You’re smart, smarter than Antonio, anyway. That's good enough.”

“Don’t be a sh—” Niccolò stopped and glanced sideways at Primerana. “Don’t be a poophead.”

Volpe snorted loudly into his tea and burst into laughter. Niccolò blushed but smiled, quietly asking Primerana not to tell Mom that he’d said a potty word. But his request went unheeded; they were treated to a chorus of “Poophead, poopyhead!” for the next hour.

* * *

Around eight o’ clock, Primerana drifted off on the couch, her curly head resting on her dad’s shoulder. As if that wasn’t precious enough, Niccolò fell asleep too, the two of them snoozing through a documentary about meerkats. Volpe hovered in the living room, watching them until he didn’t think he could fight off the wanting any longer, and got up to look around the apartment before he did anything he’d regret. Like tilt Niccolò’s chin up and kiss him, tease him into waking, taste the softness of his lips—

He picked a book off a shelf (he’d counted eight bookshelves so far) and flipped through it, raising his eyebrows. It was in Latin. Could Niccolò read Latin? Wait, could anyone read Latin? Wasn’t it a dead language? Didn’t that mean, by definition, that—

“Titus Livy.”

Volpe jumped and whirled around, almost dropping the book. “What?”

Niccolò smiled, resting his weight against the wall and nodding toward the thick volume in Volpe’s hands. “That’s the _Ab Urbe Condita Libri_. A lot of Livy’s works were lost during the Dark Ages, so everyone scrambled to recollect them during the Renaissance. Dante and Petrarch both worshiped him.”

“And you do too, I’m guessing?”

“He’s my favorite. His prose is…” Niccolò waved a hand around. “He’s an unparalleled genius. My dad gave me that copy when I turned seventeen. I had it with me the night Primerana was born.”

He would, wouldn’t he. Volpe could see it so easily, a kid with messy hair and dorky glasses, sitting beside a hospital bed, reading Roman history in the dim light, warily watching his pregnant wife, just a kid herself.

They were close. The only light came from the flickering television in the living room, and Niccolò stood so close that Volpe could smell his shampoo, something neutral and soapy. Probably a cheap, generic product. Dollar store shampoo.

“Have you read Dante?”

“Nope.”

“You should.”

“Didn’t he write about hell or something?”

“He wrote about everything. Hell. Heaven. Purgatory. Hate. Lust.” A pause, too weighty for a conversation about dead poets. “Love. Dante wrote about love above all else.”

“But he liked this Livy guy?”

“Of course. Everyone learned likes Livy.”

“You’re the first I’ve met.”

“Hang around more learned people, then.”

“I think you’re already more than I can handle.”

Niccolò smiled, that wry, gentle quirking of the corners of his mouth. Volpe took a step closer, hesitated, but there was something electric between them, a palpable charge.

“Hey… I—”

“Oh, shut up,” Niccolò murmured, and his hand caught Volpe’s hoodie. “Just do it.”

Volpe stepped forward, closed the distance between them and slid a hand into Niccolò’s hair, tipping his head back, and then they were kissing, gently, but there was a sort of urgent hunger in the way their lips came together. Volpe pulled the younger man closer, kissed him a touch too enthusiastically, and their teeth collided between their open mouths before Niccolò’s tongue found his. Volpe pushed him up against the bookshelf, loving the feel of that short dark hair, raking his fingers through it and making it stick up at odd angles. Niccolò’s hands grasped his hips and pulled him closer, fingernails digging into skin through the thick fabric of his sweatshirt. Volpe sucked on his lower lip and pulled him in for a deeper kiss, his mouth tasted like coffee…

He lost track of time, but when they broke apart his head was swimming, lack of oxygen making his vision blur. Niccolò was panting, running urgent caresses up and down Volpe’s sides; at some point his hands had snuck up under Volpe’s hoodie, fingers tracing the bumps and ridges of his ribs through his thin t-shirt.

“That’s… that was…” Niccolò sucked in a breath, blinking. “Is it normally like that?”

“No. It’s not.” Volpe pulled him close again, pressed slow, soft kisses to his swollen lips. “Shit. I really like you.”

Niccolò smiled, sliding his hands down to the waistband of Volpe’s pants. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“Mm.” The kid bit his lower lip, looking down at his feet. Volpe lowered his gaze as well and felt his face grow hot. He was hard, his dick pressed up rudely against the front of his pants. But then Niccolò shifted, an anxious little twitch of his hips. He was excited, too. “Well. What now?”  
“Um, well, I mean—your kid is here.”

“Yeah.”

Volpe hummed, lowering his mouth to the side of Niccolò’s neck and sucking on him, drawing warm skin between his teeth and laving his tongue over the goosebumps that rose up at his touch. “And I don’t want to move too fast and fuck this up.”

“Agreed.”

So he should probably stop mouth-fucking Niccolò’s throat, but pulling away was pure torment. “I guess I should just ask you out.”

“Probably.”

Volpe smiled and rested his head against Niccolò’s shoulder, playing with the belt that kept the kid’s corduroys snugged around his narrow hips. “You want to go out for coffee sometime?”

Niccolò laughed, smothering it in Volpe’s hair so he wouldn’t wake his sleeping daughter. “Gil, Gil… Is it Gilberto?”

“...Shit.”

“Hah. Knew I’d get it eventually. Yes, Gilberto—coffee sounds great.”


	4. Latte

Volpe work to an insistent knocking on the door. He groaned, rubbing his hands over his face, and swung his legs off the couch. He grumbled at a second knock, and shuffled across Niccolò’s meticulously neat living room to pull open the door.

“Hey, Nico, sorry I’m—oh.”

‘Oh’ was right. The woman standing in front of him was sharply dressed, a cup of coffee in one hand, her blonde hair tied back in a tight ponytail, revealing the lovely angles of her jaw and cheekbones. Volpe glanced down at himself—clad in the same jeans and t-shirt he’d been sporting yesterday—and felt his face flush.

“Uh—”

“I’m sorry, who are you?” she demanded, and pushed past him into the living room. “Where’s Primerana? Where’s Niccolò?”

“Jesus, Mari, I’m right here.” Niccolò padded out of his bedroom, stretching widely (his sweater hiked up a little, revealing the happy trail that teased its way underneath his boxers, and Gil gulped) and scowling at her. “This is my friend, Gi—”

“Where’s Prima?”

He sighed and indicated the door beside his own. “She’s still sleeping. And hello to you too, by the way.”

The woman shot him an impatient look. “I’m in a rush. Why didn’t you answer your phone? I texted you an hour ago asking you to get her up and dressed…”

“If it was so important, you should have called.” Niccolò shuffled to the kitchen, scratching his head. “Gilberto, you want coffee?”

“Uh—no, I’m good.”

“Marietta?”

She indicated her cup with a raised eyebrow. “I have a latte.”

“Ah.” Niccolò’s eyes softened a little, and he quirked a smile. “Vanilla, extra shot?”

“You know me.” She set down her cup and purse and headed into Primerana’s bedroom. The second she was out of sight, Gilberto spun on his heel to look at Niccolò.

“That’s—”

“My ex-wife. Prima’s mom.” Niccolò shrugged. “You sure you don’t want some coffee?”

Screw coffee, he needed a drink. As in a _drink._ But Gilberto just shook his head and sat down on the couch, feeling awkward and out of place. The feeling didn’t last—he had just settled his ass into the first imprint it found when Primerana sprinted out of her room, her stuffed lion bouncing along behind her, one furry paw clutched in her hand.

“Gil!” she shouted, taking the couch at a running leap and landing squarely in his lap, those big eyes looking up at him with nothing short of adoration. “When are you gonna make mac n’ cheese again?”

“Mac and cheese?” Marietta parroted, stepping into the living room and placing Primerana’s little backpack on the countertop. “Niccolò, we’ve talked about making sure her diet is healthy. _Kraft_ does not qualify as healthy.”

“We had veggies too, Mom,” Primerana said primly. “And I had milk not juice.”

“Yeah.” Niccolò turned to his ex and grinned. “Milk-not-juice, Mari.”

Marietta looked unconvinced, but an explosion of pop music from her purse saved them all the lecture. She retrieved her phone and cradled it to her cheek, turning away from them but not bothering to leave the room.

“Chez? Hi, baby—no, still at Nico’s. Prima’s fine—no, now’s not a good—he has company, alright? Later. We’ll do it later. —Yes. Okay. _Okay_. Yes, see you in ten. —Bye.” She returned the phone to her bag and turned toward the threesome watching her intently. “Okay! Prima. You ready to go, girlie?”

Primerana nodded and threw her arms around Gil’s neck in the same motion, squeezing down on his trachea before releasing him just as abruptly and sliding off his lap.

“Bye, Gil! See you soon!”

“Uh—yeah. Sure. Later, kid.”

Niccolò shot him the briefest—and softest, and sweetest—of smiles before bending down on one knee and catching his daughter up into his arms. “Alright, bug. Be good for your mom. I’ll see you in a few days. I love you.”

“I love you too, Daddy.” Primerana tolerated another kiss to the top of her head before wiggling free and picking up her lion. Marietta snagged her little hand before the kid could sprint into the hallway and leaned in to briefly press her painted lips to Niccolò’s cheek.

“Bye, Nico—take care.”

“Yeah. You too.” Niccolò saw them to the door, kept a smile plastered on his face because Primerana kept looking back to wave at him—but the moment they headed down the stairs he closed the door with a sharp snap and turned back toward the living room, and his expression was pure thunder. “ _Fuck_.”

“Fuck?” Gilberto got to his feet and then hovered, wanting to comfort and not sure how. “What’s fuck?”

“ _Chez_ ,” Niccolò said, mimicking the way Marietta had said it, sweet and sickly as sugar covered in honey. “Cesare. Her fiancé. I can’t _stand_ the guy.”

“Why?”

“Because he’s a _fuck_ , for one thing,” Niccolò grumbled, crossing to the kitchen and angrily pouring himself a cup of coffee—a feat Gilberto had never before witnessed. Christ only knows how one might angrily pour coffee, yet Niccolò pulled it off. “For another, he seems to think that rock on Marietta’s finger makes him Prima’s new dad. He wants to have full custody, can you believe that? _Full fucking custody_. If you never got up at three in the morning to carry her around the house and change a shitty diaper— ugh. He’d probably adopt her if he could.” Niccolò vented a hard sigh, sitting in his armchair and scrubbing a hand over his face. “Look, don’t get me wrong, I’d rather Prima have a stepdad who loves her than some ass-wit who doesn’t give a shit about her, but—”

“But that’s your kid,” Gil said gently, and now he approached Niccolò cautiously, resting a hand on his shoulder. “Hey. It’s okay. I’d be pissed too. I’d be fucking _livid_. That’s _your_ kid.”

“Yeah. Yeah, she is.” Niccolò raked a hand through his hair and winced. “Ow. Damn.”

“She didn’t even ask what happened to your head.”

“Nope. That’s Mari for you.” Niccolò hesitated a moment before reaching out and tugging on the front of Gilberto’s hoodie. “Hey.”

“Yeah?”

“Wanna come down here and kiss me again?”

“You don’t want to wait for our date?”

“Do you?”

“No,” Gilberto said, and dropped to his knees before pulling Niccolò close.

* * *

 

They went out for coffee. Gil tried to pretend it was business as usual with them, but it wasn’t. Niccolò didn’t tap away at his keyboard; he sat across from Gil and looked at him with rapt attention, watching him drink hot chocolate like it was the single most fascinating thing in the world.

“So,” Gil said, and then floundered, looking for something—anything—to say. “Were you in love with Marietta?”

Niccolò flicked one eyebrow upward. “Is that an appropriate first date question?”

“Fuck, man. Do you really care about first date protocol? Alright.” Gil leaned across the table and cradled his face in his palms, batting his eyelashes. “So where did you grow up? What do you parents do? What’s your favorite color? And were in you in love with your wife?”

Niccolò rolled his eyes. “Out of state. They work. Red. And who knows?”

“You’re bad at this.”

“Sorry.” Niccolò quirked the softest of smiles. “I keep watching your mouth move and thinking about the fact that I want to kiss you again.”

Gilberto could have leapt across the table and kissed that pretty mouth and then fucked that cute ass blind, but he restrained himself. Barely.

“You have to wait until the end of the date.”

“Why?”

Gil shrugged and tried to appear as if the mere thought of waiting for another kiss didn’t make him feel like he’d just swallowed live snakes. “You’re the one who’s all hung up on proper first date shit.”

Niccolò studied him, brows drawn, expression cute and quizzical, and then his aquiline features relaxed. “Alright. If you insist. I don’t know if I loved Marietta. Sometimes I think I loved her as much as a sixteen-year-old boy can love someone. But then sometimes I think I just liked being the only one in my peer group who had sex on a regular basis.”

Gil barked out a laugh. “Which backfired spectacularly.”

Niccolò canted his head to the side. “I wouldn’t say that. We weren’t ready to have a kid, but I don’t regret that we had Primerana. I did at first, when we found out Mari was pregnant. I was horrified. Distraught. I told her she should have an abortion.” He grimaced, and the brief expression of pain on his face made Gil want to crawl across the table and hug him. “ _That_ I do regret.”

“I think most sixteen-year-old mothers consider getting rid of...of it.”

“Yeah. I’m sure they do. Probably with good reason. And Mari was no different.” Niccolò spun his empty coffee cup in his hands. “I just hate—sorry, this is going to sound weird.”

“Lay it on me.”

A flicker of a smile. “I just hate the thought that there’s a parallel universe where my inability to take responsibility for my actions resulted in Primerana’s nonexistence.”

For several long seconds, Gilberto just looked at him—dark, tousled hair, neatly tucked scarf, the buttons of his peacoat undone, faint shadows beneath his eyes and across his jaw—and then he got to his feet and circled the table. He took Niccolò’s face in both hands and kissed him, slow and soft, and everyone else in the room could just go straight to hell because Niccolò’s lips parted and meshed with his and kissed him back.

Gil counted to five in his head—and then to seven, because he was greedy, because Niccolò’s mouth was warm and this was the first time Gil had ever enjoyed the taste of coffee—before he stepped back. Niccolò sucked his (wet, swollen) lower lip between his teeth and dropped his gaze. He pushed the seat next to him out with a foot, and Gil sat down and scooted it closer, close enough that their knees touched.

Without being asked, Shaun brought them a second round.

* * *

“So are you, like, gay now?”

Niccolò saw that question coming from a thousand miles off, but he still didn’t want to answer it. “It doesn’t work that way. It’s not like turning on a lightswitch.” He uncrossed and recrossed his ankles. “And I’ve always been attracted to men. We talked about this.” He was referring, of course, to the one time he had told her, in a quavering voice, about what his mother would call “sinful inclinations,” about the “homosexual persuasions” that had been haunting him since he was six, and Marietta had straddled him and murmured “Fuck, baby, that’s hot” and then they had messy, clumsy sex on her alcoholic father’s couch.

But his ex-wife just looked at him and said “Huh” and went back to putting on a fresh layer of mascara, and Niccolò wondered for the hundred millionth time why he had ever thought he could spend his life with her.

They sat on a park bench, close enough to look friendly but not close enough to be mistaken for a couple—because they weren’t a couple, Niccolò reminded himself, even though all he could think about when he looked at her were the neat loops of her signature on their divorce paperwork and the papery sound her shirt made when she slid it from her shoulders, and the way she had climbed into his lap and whispered “One more time?” and the softness of her petal-pink nipples under his tongue while her nimble fingers pulled his pants open. Other than those fervent memories, though, the only evidence that they had ever been more than park bench companions was the little girl chasing a squirrel around the playground.

“Mama!” Primerana ran up to them full-tilt, skidding to a halt that sent wood chips flying everywhere, and proudly held up an acorn. “Lookit what I found!”

“Aw,” Mari said, smiling and taking the offering and turning it over in her hands, “it’s a little squirrel lunchbox.”

Primerana giggled at that, clapping her tiny gloved hands, and in another moment of startling clarity Niccolò remembered why he had loved Marietta—that smile, the gentleness in her hands, the way she took such delight in literally everything in the world. He thought how nice it would be to be able to sit closer and put his arm around her and touch his mouth to her soft cheek while their daughter sat in both their laps and chattered about squirrels needing lunchboxes for when their squirrel schools took field trips.

“Hey,” Marietta said, while Primerana ran off to find more acorns, “thanks for this. I know it’s supposed to be your day and all.”

“It’s alright,” he replied, and he meant it, even if that morning he had wanted to call her a selfish bitch who had insisted upon this every-other-weekend tradeoff custody bullshit in the first place. “I think it’s good for her to see us together.”

Marietta smiled and tucked her chin. “Yeah. Me too.” And then she cautiously took his hand and he let her hold it, if only for the sake of the off chance that Primerana would see this brief reminder that Daddy and Mama could do more than resent each other.

“So—how’re things with Cesare?”

Marietta’s smile faded. “Nico, we were having a really nice moment there.”

“It can still be a nice moment. You and I should be able to have a discussion about our relationships without ruining a nice moment.”

“But you always get—I don’t know.”

“Get what?”

“You get _weird_ when Chez comes up.”

“No I don’t.”

“Yes, you do—you’re being weird right now. Like, I dunno—defensive.” Marietta sighed and released his hand.  “Can we talk about something else? Please? Anything else?”

“Fine.” Niccolò drummed his fingertips on his knee. “He doesn’t want to change the custody agreement, does he?”

“ _Nico_.”

“Come on, Mari, you’ve been blowing off this question for—”

“Yes, alright?” she snapped, and got to her feet, hugging her purse over her shoulder. “Yes, he does, but I’m not going to let him and I won’t even discuss it with him because you’re Primerana’s father and just because you and I couldn’t make it work doesn’t mean my baby doesn’t get to be near her dad, and it really pisses me off that you can’t just _trust_ me.”

“You left me,” he said, and even though it tasted petulant and gritty in his mouth he wouldn’t take it back. “For him.”

Marietta stared at him, brows furrowing. She’d always had light hair, but it was _bright_ blonde now—when had she started dyeing it? “Are you saying you’d rather we were still married?”

Niccolò sucked in a breath through his teeth. “No. I’m not.”

“But you’re still pissed at me for leaving?”

“Yeah, I guess I am.”

Marietta stood in silence for a moment, observing her boots. Without looking up, in a voice swollen and trembling, she said “Make up your mind, Niccolò.” And then she turned away and crossed to the playground, bending down to give Primerana a hug and a kiss before hurrying to her car, chin tucked, purse clutched tightly against her side.

“Daddy.” Primerana trotted over, her lion cradled in her arms, head canted to the side. “Mama’s crying.”

Niccolò watched her buckle and turn the key in the ignition, watched her wipe angrily at her eyes before picking up her cellphone and backing the car out. She didn’t look back before she turned the corner and vanished from sight.

“She’s alright, bug. Don’t worry.” Niccolò tapped his daughter’s nose, red from the cold. “Are you all done playing? Want to go home?”

Primerana caught his hand and shook her head. “Can we play with Gil?”

“Really?”

Her face brightened, and she nodded enthusiastically. “Yes!”

“Alright. Sure. Why not.” He pulled his phone from his pocket and opened his contacts, smiling a little at the ‘Devastatingly Handsome’ a mysterious someone had added to Gilberto’s name. He held the phone to his ear and patted his lap; Primerana crawled up eagerly.

“— _lo_?”

“Hey. Gil? It’s Niccolò.”

“ _—Oh. Shit. Uh, hey.”_ A grunt from the other line, and rustling clothing. “ _What’s up?_ ”

“Nothing much. Prima wants to know if you’ll come tear up the town with us.”

_“Shit, man, that—look, that sounds great, but I’ve got, uh—I’ve got a thing today. It’s—yeah, sorry, I can’t.”_

“Oh. Well, hey, no problem—are you okay?”

 _“Of course,”_ Gil said, but he sounded—strained, somehow. _“Look, I’ve gotta go—I’ll call you later? Feel like getting another cup of coffee?”_

“Sure. Yeah. That’d be good.”

_“Cool—be good, kid, okay? I’ll talk to you soon.”_

“Hey—Gil?” But the call ended, leaving Niccolò frowning down at his screen.

* * *

Gilberto hung up and dropped the phone onto his chest, groaning and scrubbing a hand over his eyes. Bartolomeo was still snoring beside him, one of his dog tags stuck in his mouth and his pistol clutched in his hand. Wincing, Gil leaned over and gingerly removed the clip before removing the gun and setting it on the ground.

“Wassgoinon?” Bartolomeo mumbled, cracking one eye open.

“Nothing, man. Why do we have a gun?”

“Hell, I dunno.” He yawned and rolled over, scratching his ass.

Gil rolled his eyes and climbed off the mattress, stretching widely. His eyes itched and burned with tiredness, and a swell of nausea made him pause and clutch his stomach, breathing deeply. Only then did he become suddenly aware of his surroundings; he and Bartolomeo had crashed in a warehouse on top of a moldy old mattress. The huge doors were closed, but he smelled sea water. The pier, then.

“What are we doing here?’

“I said I don’t _know_ , Gilly.” Bartolomeo lifted his head and squinted at him. “Are we out of dope?”

“Uhh.” Gil dug around in his pockets and sighed when he produced a sandwich baggy still stained with white powder. “Pretty much, unless you’re willing to lick it off the plastic.”

“I’ll take what I can get. Shit. My head is killing me. Gimme.”

Gil offered it up and pulled on his coat, looking away from his friend lazily sucking on the baggie. “I’m heading out. Got money?”

“Yeah, got a fiver. Good enough for the bus. Who was that on the phone?”

Gil paused. “Uh. No one. See you.”

His watch read a little past noon. Gilberto tightened his coat and sucked in a few breaths of chilly air, blowing his nose onto his sleeve and wincing at the distinctive burn in his sinuses. He hadn’t felt so exhausted in ages. He let his feet carry him without direction, thinking wistfully of breakfast, or of a fresh cup of hot chocolate. He had half a mind to go to the coffee shop, but the chances of running into Niccolò were too high.

His phone buzzed again. He released a sigh of relief when the name popped up on screen and answered it.

“Hey, Paola.”

_“Gilly bean. I got some weird messages from you last night. Are you okay?”_

He groaned and raked a hand through his hair. “Yeah. I’m sorry about that. I got fucked up.”

_“Gil…”_

“I know, I know. I know, alright? I didn’t mean to.”

_“Did something happen?”_

He paused halfway through a crosswalk and jumped when someone honked at him. Crossing in hurry, he sat down on the nearest bench, hunching over to protect himself from a cold breeze. “I met someone.”

_“Yeah?”_

“Yeah.”

_“Tell me about him.”_

“He’s a prelaw student who would rather be in political science. He’s got these gorgeous gray eyes and a really cute daughter and super soft lips and they’re really pink and I just really like him.”

_“I don’t understand how this story ends with you getting fucked up.”_

Gil inhaled and exhaled. “Because I’m scared shitless. I wanna kiss him all the time. I think his kid is really sweet and I made them dinner the other night. And we went on a date. But I also met his ex-wife and I’m pretty sure she’s a bitch.”

 _“Gil,”_ she said sharply, _“I know I didn’t raise you to speak of women like that.”_

“Right. Sorry.”

_“Gilly bean, being scared is not a good reason to use. You know that, right?”_

“Yeah, I know.”

_“What are you going to do next?”_

“I guess I’ll tell Antonio.”

_“Are you going to tell this boy that you have a problem?”_

“I can’t. I don’t want Niccolò to know that—I don’t want him to know.”

_“Do you want to be with him?”_

Gil hesitated. “I—as much as I’ve ever wanted to be with someone.”

Paola hummed in his ear. _“You say he has an ex-wife and a daughter. It sounds like he’s capable of making commitments. If you’re not, Gil, it would be kinder to let him go now.”_

Dammit. His foster mother had always been perceptive. “I wanna try, though. I wanna at least try to be with him.”

_“Then it sounds to me that you know what you need to do.”_

“Yeah.” He scuffed a toe against the sidewalk. “Yeah, I guess I do. Thanks.”

_“Are you coming home for Thanksgiving?”_

“Dunno.”

_“Let me know as soon as you do.”_

“I will.”

_“Be good, Gilly bean. Look after yourself.”_

“Sure.”

_“You know I love you, kiddo.”_

“Yeah, yeah.” He smiled a little in spite of himself, cradling his phone against his other cheek. “Talk to you soon.”

Her line clicked off, and he steadied himself with a few deep breaths. He didn’t feel high anymore. A little groggy, a little sick. Nothing a cup of coffee couldn’t cure. Steeling his nerves, he tapped in a familiar number and counted the rings.

_“Gilberto. Hey.”_

“Niccolò.” And he was smiling again, smiling stupidly at his boots, smiling like an idiot, because he'd never liked his full name before. He couldn’t help himself. He was crazy for this stupid kid. “Sorry about earlier. I cleared up my schedule if you’re still up for that play date?”


End file.
